


nephilim

by dandere (birdcaged)



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Catholic School, Consensual Underage Sex, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Heterosexual Sex, Homophobic Language, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Multi, Oral Sex, POV Third Person Limited, Religious Conflict, Religious Themes, Sexual Coercion, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-27 02:13:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdcaged/pseuds/dandere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn’t like we couldn’t do such a thing, because we did. It still takes me a while to accept it, but, hell. We did it a lot. A hell of a lot. We weren’t kids or anything. We knew what we were doing. We weren’t what you’d call adults, but shit, we knew what was going on down there. I guess I should have been the one to stop it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. un

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Note:** Re-posting this. An old forgotten story I wrote five years ago when I was focusing on adding imagery to my writings, and when I was huge in the Panic! fandom and just wanted some cute Brendon/Ryan Catholic school boys p0rn. Only it turned out a lot more sinister than I had planned.

If I said I didn’t want it, I would have been a liar.  
  
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t bring myself to say it. In those moments, I could barely speak at all. Yeah, I knew it wasn’t okay, though even now I can’t fully understand why.  
  
It must have been something drilled into me before I could comprehend the markings of right and wrong. Whatever it was, all I could say about it was that it was on some level of sinful. I mean, Christ, we both went to the same Catholic school. I may not have _liked_ my AP Theology class, but I paid attention in it. Even though he would never take a class like that, he must have learned it somewhere too. It wasn’t like we couldn’t do such a thing, because we did. It still takes me a while to accept it, but, hell. We did it a lot. A hell of a lot. We weren’t kids or anything. We knew what we were doing. We weren’t what you’d call adults, but shit, we knew what was going on down there. I guess I should have been the one to stop it. People would have taken me seriously. I was in the valedictorian circle; I was graduating with honors. He was a lady’s man, and a party boy, but besides that, I could have spoken up anytime. But I didn’t. It wasn’t a matter of him keeping me hostage, rather, I was the only one stopping myself. I didn’t want it to stop for a while.  
  
For a time, it was all I had to look forward to in life. It was a break. It was something that I could finally consider greater than a distraction. I did want it. I couldn’t say no, because I didn’t want it to end.  
  
But I did know it was wrong.  
  
A man shall not lie with another man.

* * *

  
  
“Brendon, those are the geekiest glasses. I swear.”  
  
He peered over the black frames from his text book, eyes shining with a glare. “It’s not my fault I’m farsighted. I need them to read.” He took them off, placing them on his desk and standing. “But I don’t need them to kick your ass.” He chuckled and heaved a playful shove.  
  
Ryan held up his arms, laughing as he braced himself from the push and quickly countered, throwing a gentle punch to Brendon’s arm. The exciting tension of their roughhousing eased into a soft glow of content as the boys laughed, hands in pockets, eyes shut while they smiled. Ryan grabbed Brendon’s chair, turning it so that the back was against his chest and his legs straddled the sides.  
  
“Hey, Brendon, you know Keltie? The hot blonde-haired girl from my math class?”  
  
Brendon looked about awkwardly for another chair before settling into a lean against his desk. “No, actually. You’re taking Transitions, remember?” He slipped a superior smirk and crossed his arms in front of his chest.  
  
Ryan frowned, his expression holding more sarcasm than honest anger.  
  
Brendon was in Honors Pre-Calculus, and was excelling in it. Ryan was still struggling with the mysterious and utterly confusing concept of the _x_. Though Brendon knew Ryan would not take his comment as a full-on insult, he understood that it would prove effective. It was one more thing that he was better at, and that couldn’t have made Ryan any madder. One more victory for Brendon in the constantly raging war of their boyhood lives. It was a simple and harmless battle, but their rivalry was a sturdy foundation that was set many years ago, emerging like a tablet of stone on the day they had met.  
  
Ryan sighed, false annoyance obvious in his voice. “Ha-ha-ha, funny man. That was great. Anyway, I thought you just might like to know,” His tone changed into one low and dangerously sensual. It dripped with pride and vanity, sinful and lusty. Brendon felt it odd that his heart began to skip faster at his sounds. “I got to try some of that ‘oh-so-condescending-Transitions’ pussy that you care to deem unworthy.”  
  
Ryan pretended to inspect his fingernails, but his eyes were drawn to their corners to watch Brendon’s expression change. Brendon blushed a deep red. His eyes averted to the floor as a reigned hand fumbled for his glasses. A few of his unsteady fingers pushed the lenses into place from the bridge of his nose, the roseate complexion unfading.  
  
Ryan continued, cradling his head with his palms, elbows teetering on the edge of the chair’s back. “Y’know, I’ve always wondered why you haven’t attempted such a feat, Brendon.” His voice was becoming demeaning. For one reason or another, he was venturing beyond the safety zone of their childish play. He was mocking, and being very serious about it.  
  
“Are you so scared that the awe-inspiring Brendon can’t cut it in this frontier? Or is it that the only girls left in your math class are ugly-ass band geeks? Or that they look pretty enough, but they’ve already gotten some from me?”  
  
His arguments were making little sense, but they were cheap blows, swift and stinging. Suddenly, Ryan tossed in a savior, proclaiming all of his previous statements null and void. His final addition made everything he had said before a joke. His tone seemed lighter.  
  
“Or maybe it’s ‘cause you’re a faggot.”  
  
Brendon eased his tensed shoulders, releasing a gratefully pleasant smile. He kicked a leg of Ryan’s chair. “No, _you’re_ the faggot.”  
  
A laugh escaped.  
  
Ryan jolted to a stand as the chair shook, face happy and playful. He still looked like such a child when he laughed. Brendon realized this, and his laughter became quieter. Ryan’s, however, grew. “You hear that? That’s the sound of no denial.”  
  
He chuckled it out, walking closer with smooth and secure steps. He stopped a few inches away from Brendon, only a few centimeters shorter, his deep brown eyes fixated on Brendon’s. “You’d probably come in your pants if I were to kiss you, huh?” He smiled, confident and comical. Brendon’s grin began to fade, and the small hints of his blushing began to return.  
  
“ _That_ was a fucked-up thing to say. You turn queer or something?” It came out as a pushed laugh. Brendon had tried not to sound curious, but what he had meant to sound joking came out as something hard and even a little bit frightened. No one had ever said something that raunchy to him before. Sure, Ryan had gotten pretty nasty and detailed as he recounted his weekend-night escapades, ultimately topping Brendon’s academic and physical skills, but never in a way that made Brendon wonder such things. He hadn’t even heard such a thing from a girl. Hell, he hadn’t heard _anything_ like that from a girl. An uncomfortable silence grew between them, and Brendon felt the rhythm of Ryan’s hot breaths on his face. Ryan’s eyes looked downcast as they hid below his hood of chestnut hair.  
  
Brendon’s arms uncrossed and fell to the corners of the desk. He gripped the edges, suddenly feeling very unsafe. Ryan took another step, flicking his long brown bangs away, his stare harsh and unfamiliar.  
  
“You tell me, Brendon.”  
  
Brendon felt the tickle of their hair intertwining first, before anything else. He saw it, the unnatural combination of Ryan’s brown strands forcing themselves into Brendon’s hair. It was like pouring dirt onto untouched platinum, defiling and dirty. He felt his own burning, then. There was a rush of color that left Brendon stunned in a swarm of black, eyes abandoned and blank. His face was on fire as Ryan’s cheek touched his own. He felt he was swimming in an ocean of red, red, red. There was so much, it clouded in ebony. He felt the slick moisture of Ryan’s lips, a pressure of wet heat upon his own, then a slip of hot tongue into his mouth. It tasted inhuman and foreign, a thing that is unwelcome, unwanted. It fought with Brendon’s, lifting it up with a forceful power that showed practice. He tasted like strangers. Many, many strangers. There was a brush of lashes upon Brendon’s eyelids, signaling their closure. There were hands upon his, a push on his chest, a lock-in of his legs.  
  
The moments came so quickly, it was as if Ryan had been placed upon him. Brendon did not struggle. His mind was so empty, his body so stiff. There were no thoughts; there was silence save for the sound of their lips rolling upon one another.  
  
One explosion of a word, blossoming darkly in his mind: _Sinner_.  
  
Brendon clamped his eyes tighter, trying to fall backwards so that his mouth would pull away. It stayed too close, and when his shoulders hit the front of the desk, they were caged by Ryan’s arms. Their lips were still together, their tongues still moving to a beat that was startlingly slow. It was difficult to stop. Brendon felt his head would burst as his one thought multiplied into an echo of guilt. The lone word shadowed into a million pointing fingers, their sleeves black, their digits white.  
  
 _Sinner, sinner, sinner, sinner..._  
  
The warning bell rang, loud and crisp, like a cut on an arm. The bloodline of its beeping was thick and menacing. Only one minute left before class started.  
  
Ryan pulled away, eyes shaded with the darkness of his hair’s eclipse and the fullness of his lashes. He looked sleepy and full. Perhaps contented. His lips shone with the remains of Brendon’s saliva. His cheeks were heavy with the rich color of roses, but not embarrassed. Not at all.  
  
His mouth lifted into one of his customary kid-like smiles. “Oops. Looks like I fell on ya, huh, buddy?”  
  
Brendon nodded, breathless. “Y-yeah,” he mused, voice so quiet it was almost gone. His glasses were fogged, but he could still see the clouded outlines of things.  
  
Ryan pulled away, lifting himself and straightening his shirt and tie before grasping the strap of his backpack. He looped his paper-boy style bag onto his hip, shaking his hair back into its bouncy waves. He looked back. Brendon was panting, face crimson, back still plastered onto the heated paneling of the desk. Ryan grinned. He looked...caring.  
  
“You okay? I didn’t mean to trip on you.” His lie was like a bribe.  
  
Brendon shot himself up with his arms, stumbling to straighten his glasses and lunge for his own backpack. “It’s okay, yeah, I’m fine, yeah.” He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and flicked the sweat away with a wave. “I’ll see you later, alright?”  
  
Ryan shot a hand up, face still stronger. “Yeah.”  
  
They walked away in separate directions, the outline of Brendon’s handprint still steamed onto the shining top of the desk, like a picture written on a frosty window. As Brendon walked away, he reached to wipe the sweat that had surely gathered upon his brow. He only felt the silky clamminess on his cool skin. The one word began to skate the outline of his stomach, making his head spiral, making his wan face turn fevered to the touch and color.  
  
 _Sinner_.


	2. deux

“Wow, you came. And I thought you were chicken shit.” Ryan turned the corner with a smile already on his face, his words reminding Brendon why he was in front of Ryan’s locker in the first place.  
  
Brendon twisted swiftly, gripping Ryan’s collar and slamming him into the set of lockers he had been leaning against. He had moved as quickly as he could, but Ryan still had found time to raise his arms up against his chest in defense. The first emotion to cross Ryan’s face was confusion, then fear. Shortly after, there was a wave of pain splashing on his features.   
  
“Jesus _fucking_ Christ, man, what the _fuck_ was that for!” Ryan moved slowly, spitting out the words in a hiss of agony. He really might have hurt him, Brendon realized. He tried to guise his momentary worry with the anger he had stored.  
  
“I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, writing me some shitty-ass love note, but that was _fucked_ up. I wanted to let that whole scene in the classroom slide, but this shit is freaking me out, so _quit it now_.” Brendon kept his voice low and his mouth close to Ryan’s face. He wanted his breath to be fire; he wanted to see his expressions burn. He hoped his eyes were the daggers he had prayed for.   
  
But Ryan only smiled again, the hurt still lingering in his eyes. “Jeez, Brendon, where did all of this come from? You weren’t exactly kicking and screaming with my tongue down your throat or my hand on your ass.” He let a chuckle slide out, and the glow of sudden pain in his eyes started to fade. “For a second there, I thought you were gonna sock me, just like old times. You were always one hyper son-of-a-bitch.”  
  
Noticing that his words were forced and choking, Brendon lessened his grip on his shirt, releasing a now sweat-wrinkled knot of cloth from his tightened fist. “I wanted to. I really did. Listen,” Brendon let go completely and backed away unsteadily. Ryan gasped for air. “I don’t know what happened in the classroom. But I was scared, okay? Fucking freaked out. You...” he paused and swallowed. His mouth had gone dry. “You’re my best friend, Ryan.”  
  
“I know,” Ryan panted, hand on his chest. “I know, man.”  
  
“And...and I don’t want this sort of shit happening to us.”  
  
“Really?” Ryan’s breathing began to regulate. “What sort of shit?”  
  
“I...what?” Brendon had to stop his running train of thought. “What’d you say?”  
  
“What sort of shit is happening,” he held up two fingers on each hand, signifying quotation marks. “'to us’?”  
  
“Ryan, you...” Brendon swallowed again. Nothing. “You...you kissed me.” His lips had gone dry as well, but he did not want to lick them. He felt dirty thinking about what had happened. Their tongues...crossing. Touching. “You kissed me hard.”  
  
“Yeah.” Ryan shrugged. “So?”  
  
“Friends...” He started, but shook his head and corrected himself. “Guys don’t do that.”  
  
“We did.”  
  
“I don’t want this, okay? That’s all I’m trying to say. I’ve...we’ve got our studies now. We don’t need to think about shit like this. I just want to be normal again.” Brendon felt his chest get tighter. “All I want is for things to be normal again. This whole kiss thing...No, I just want it to stop. It never happened, okay?”  
  
Ryan sighed and turned his head away. “Glad to see you were so interested in what I asked you here for.”  
  
“I thought...” Brendon felt his tongue begin to coat itself in a layer of dust. It felt unused. Old. Dead. “I really thought you were gonna try and put a move on me.” He laughed just to shake away the shivers he felt coming. He pushed his glasses up the slope of his nose with his middle and forefinger.  
  
“Nah, man.” Ryan shook his head.  
  
“You, uh,” he cleared his throat, but ended up coughing. His mouth felt so empty. “You scared me today. With the kiss and your hand and all.”  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
“Why’d you do it then?”  
  
Ryan shrugged again. “I just wanted to see how it felt.”  
  
“How did it-”  
  
“Okay, I guess.”  
  
“Oh...” Brendon looked away. “So, what did you want to see me for?”  
  
Ryan was averting his gaze as well. He was scanning the concrete pavement, as if searching for something. An answer, maybe? His face was one similar to man who had to change his plans. “I wanted to see if you wanted to hang tomorrow after school.”  
  
Brendon shifted his hands into his pockets, a little startled. That was all? He had wanted to cry and vomit and scream because of this? “Um, I might have to study.”  
  
“Yeah, but do you want to?”  
  
“Sure, I mean, I guess. If I don’t have anything else to-”  
  
“See you tomorrow then. A half hour after school.” Ryan spread his hand over the place Brendon had grabbed him. It was no use; the wrinkles stayed perfectly in place. He straightened the strap of his knapsack over it, covering a little of it. He began to walk away.  
  
“I guess I’ll see you.” Brendon raised a hand in a wave, though he knew Ryan was in no position to see it.   
  
“Come alone.” Ryan kicked the phrase back over his shoulder as he left.  
  
And that was it. He said nothing more.


	3. trois

It was 4:52 AM, and Brendon lay awake.  
  
His mind lolled and fell in a state of being that was blurred and undefined. It was a fitful, restless sort of consciousness that left his body coated in a reeking and heavy sweat. It stuck to him closely, as if it were a layer of skin. His white sheets, though recently washed and hung to dry in the cool and fragrant scent of the air, were now rank with the clawing stench of his perspiration and essence. Brendon was still clutching himself, chest rising and falling very quickly, fingers sticky with heat and shame and come and sweat, so much sweat. There were rivers flowing on him, it seemed. Clotting, stifling rivers that drowned deeply. Quilts crumpled damply below the beating pulse between his thighs and palms, pumping heartily into empty, empty, empty.  
  
Soon after he had shot out everything full he believed was inside of him, he was swiftly and utterly ill.  
  
Kicking away his cotton covers in a frenzy, Brendon leapt over the high edge of his bed to his door, flinging it open and sprinting to the bathroom, thankfully, across from his room. He clutched the porcelain edge of the sink that held his heaving body from toppling over, retched dryly twice, and poured out a small measure of simple vomit. It was pure stomach fluid; he had not eaten much at all since these thoughts. He spat out the sour traces of bile that had lined his mouth, eyes tearing and falling into the most violent aching for rest.  
  
 _I...he...my hand just..._  
  
Ryan.  
  
Oh, God, but is he not a beautiful boy! Brendon remembered when they were younger, before girls at all. They were perfect before such corruption. They were brown-skinned and light-haired in their long summer masks. They swam together everyday during their many trips to Lake Mead in the summer. It had been sun and innocence until Brendon’s hair glowed crystal from the sky’s natural bleach. Ryan’s hair had been lighter too; his locks were like golden chestnuts, and they too became hot to the touch after just one hour of play.  
  


* * *

  
  
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice breathy. It wasn’t unusual for Ryan to get too competitive, always wanting to prove he was the stronger one. Ryan did look sorry, though.  
  
Brendon hacked the words out as if they were mucus. “Whatever, Ryan.”  
  
Ryan blinked, face clean and naïve, a novice to the concept of triumph. He felt hot with overwhelming. He pulled his t-shirt over his head, brown bangs bouncing. “Here. Hang on.”  
  
Brendon would not lift his eyes from his intent focus on the bottom of the pool of sick pity he was wallowing in. At the sound of falling cloth and ruffling hair, he raised his sight, only to have his pupils widen and whiten. “No.”  
  
“Really.” Ryan was hurriedly slipping out of his swim trunks.  
  
“What the hell, Ryan!” Brendon jolted, water spraying and surging at the flutter of his flurried hands. He had never sworn so, but he could find nothing else in his mind. His face was warm. His shorts felt smaller. "People-"  
  
“C'mon, haven't you ever wanted to go skinny dippy at least once? It's just us, look around. I’ll come in, too. I don’t want to get my clothes wet. I just want to make you feel better.” But Ryan’s eyes were stronger. They screamed for him in regret.  
  
The clothes dripped from his limp fingertips, the silhouette of his frame filled darkly from its emergence with shadows. His back was against the fiery sun, but it was not enough to block away his pure and milky exposure. Brendon saw it. He saw it and blushed. Before he could protest, or even speak or breathe again, a blooming flower of blue burst beside him. A fine rain of droplets sprinkled his heated face when Ryan emerged and flipped his layers of tawny hair, grinning. “There,” he laughed. “Now you’re not alone.”  
  
“Alone?” Brendon suddenly felt stranded and smothered, drowning in the cloth around him. The entirety of his face seemed to redden.  
  
“No. Never.” He said it as if it were simple. “Not with me.” Ryan kept smiling, and with loose and untrained fingers, he slipped his hand into Brendon’s fist, wriggling the stress away, freeing the strain. It was as if a set of reigns had slackened a tight hold. The sensation was new...and startling.  
  
Brendon drew his hand away, nervous, his other hand cradling the shaking set of digits close to his chest. A look of hurt began to cross Ryan’s features, first striking the wild gleam in his eyes and dulling them into a sullen, saddened hue. His mouth turned next, limping weakly into a small line of tightened lips. It was as if he were going to cry, but then again, Brendon recalled, he had looked like he had touched something dirty. Slowly, he lowered his hands from his heart and weaned his expression away from revulsion. Ryan’s face was still brimming with imaginary tears. Who was Brendon to make them real?  
  
Almost hesitantly, he lifted the sticking fabric of his own shirt from his skin, future and forming muscles glistening. His body was lean and toned, already sculpting itself into something exquisite. Heaving a small grunt, Brendon hurled the squashing pile of sopping cloth away, listening until he heard the assuring plop upon the thin and sand strewn grass. He found himself easing into the cleansing motions of stripping away the restricting layers that covered him, and when he removed his own shorts, he could not help but do it with a simper. He threw the thick wad onto the ground as well, a relieved chuckle soft in his throat.  
  
“So they can dry,” Brendon spoke confidently, eyes on the land instead of Ryan. He turned his head, though, and when he did, there was a smile. Ryan felt it stir in his cheeks, and he smiled too.  
  
Ryan flicked a small spray of the murky lake water jokingly at Brendon’s torso. Brendon shoved a wave back towards the chestnut-haired boy, grin growing at the sight of Ryan’s young muscles quivering in response from the splash. And so a war was waged, their faces bright as they tossed and crashed tall walls of water at one another, trying to cover the other in the wet sky at their waists. They ran through their shallow, hand submerged and rising, submerged and rising. As Brendon sobered from his intoxicating rush of excitement, he felt the warm lick of sun on his back and the hot, delicate hold of his hopeless bond. It was for just a second, perhaps even less, but he felt their glow become tangible. Their friendship and trust had somehow solidified enough to be a breeze in his hair, smoothing and burning. A line of pink crossed the bridge of Brendon’s nose at the realization, pace slowing as he approached the shore, panting and flushed, Ryan beaming beside him, brighter than a star. When they keened themselves into the hold of the sand, the heat of the wind had left, and Brendon felt his smile soften a bit at its edges.  
  
The boys were laying stomach-down in the sand, staring at one another. Their eyelids drooped sleepily with content, deepening the shades of blue in their irises. _If we could shade and mix our eyes_ , Brendon thought, _I wonder what color it would be. I bet it would be so pretty, we would both block it out._ There was quiet and calm for a while, their breaths finally slowing into the sort one gets as they are about to fall asleep. Ryan spoke huskily, lips dry and chiseled.  
  
“Brendon,” his eyes looked like they were still swimming. “You know you’re my best friend, right?”  
  
“Yeah,” he breathed it out warmly. Of course. More than anything, it is what I believe.  
  
His eyes closed, and he was quiet for a very long time. They both were. The sound of their breathing faded into the rustles of the tree leaves. Their eyelashes’ fluttering was the beat of the wind.  
  
“I love you.” Ryan whispered, the noise like a feather. His eyes were still shut.  
  
Brendon moved closer and extended an arm to touch the warm satin of Ryan’s back. “Me too,” he mouthed silently, voice lost. But Ryan’s lips upturned, a shattered breath guised in laughter falling from their slopes.  
  
“Thank God.” He nearly choked the phrase out, nudging his whole body into Brendon’s hold, pushing himself into the unsure grasp, making him stronger. His own arms enveloped him, fingertips grazing the fair, blond hairs in the crook of his back. As they grew closer, Brendon noticed so many things. He never knew Ryan was so perfect. His skin was so much more than soft, so much more than unblemished. Even the grime of the water seemed purified within the sent of his hair, morphing into something foreign and exotic.  
  
The emotion hit him wholly and swiftly without any mercy. It was bold and gripping and tearing; a thick meaty feeling that sheared his entire body with freezing knives. An ocean grew below his stomach with a storm so violent, Brendon shifted noticeably. How queer and cruel the grip of lust is upon a being, but upon Brendon’s quietly supple yet childish body, it was fierce sensation that left him stunned and frightened of himself. All at once, he felt the urge to grip the boy in his arms like a treasure, to turn his body upon him and press. His mouth felt empty and ravenous, fingers restrained from primal grips. He wanted to scratch and push. He wanted to hold, claw and plunge. He saw red rhythms and felt dripping moans and growls prowling in his chest. His heart quickened. He wanted to do it all now.  
  
Suddenly, he was very afraid. He had thought all of this...and felt sick of himself for it.  
  
With the touch of Ryan’s skin under his hand, he cleared his throat, burying any other sounds that had grown within him, and did not make another noise.  
  


* * *

  
“How was your trip to the lake, dear?” His mother’s fine hair blended to her creamy skin like merging shades of lights. Brendon jumped at the sound of her cheery voice. His swim trunks were crisp from sunning, his hair still cold and dripping, his chest bare and darker with tan. He swallowed the dry dust in his mouth and moved his towel over his crotch.  
  
“Good,” he mused the words as if he were reading them aloud from some faintly-printed script. “Ryan and I went swimming.”  
  
“How fun!” She beamed. His mother was very pretty. He had never noticed that before. He looked like her, a little bit. “Brendon, your hair is sopping, but your shorts are barely wet at all.” She pouted her lips as if she were a little girl, and he almost believed it.  
  
“I didn’t wear them.”  
  
“Why ever not?”  
  
“We went naked.”  
  
His mother paused her floating hands, leaving them suspended and coated in clouds of snowy soap. They leaked dribbles of milky water, the sounds of their landing abnormally shattering. He smelled the light soap; it was her smell too. She wore since the day he was born. Maybe even longer then that. Her blank apron reflected the sunlight like a mirror, and it hurt his eyes to watch her.  
  
“Brendon,” she drew her palms back and scrubbed them clean on her dress. “I need to tell you.” She faced him, cheeks flushed pink naturally; not with make-up. Not this time. She sighed, attempting to sound troubled. The sound was light and simple instead. “Thank goodness your father isn’t back from the grocery store yet.”  
  
“Mom.” Brendon stared back, even more afraid than he had been of his own startling lust.  
  
“Boys don’t do things like that at your age, especially with other boys.” She opened and folded her hands like doors. “You should never be naked with or around another boy. It’s shameful, and God hates it.”  
  
“God hates when I swim naked with Ryan?” Brendon asked shakily, warily.  
  
“Well, yes, but it’s not the swimming, or even that you’re with Ryan. Just that you’re with a boy without something to cover yourself. It makes him angry and sad. I don’t want to hear that you’ve done anything of that sort again.”  
  
“Yes, mom.”  
  


* * *

  
  
“Hey, Brendon, let’s swim.” Ryan reached down toward Brendon’s bathing suit ties. His hand was slapped. He withdrew it quickly, hissing sharply with the pain, skin reddening instantly.  
  
“I don’t want to swim like that again. Never. It’s gross.” Brendon followed this with a jerked shove before stomping away. Ryan watched him, even as he staggered to keep himself standing after the brutish heave of force.  
  
“Okay,” he said, very quietly, a little sadly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fyi: flashback chapter


	4. quatre

“Holy crap, Ryan!” Brendon jumped when he walked into the kitchen, Ryan behind him, placing his keys on the rack and trailing after him. The pot was nearly full to the brim with food. “How did you get all of this in a half-hour?”  
  
“I didn’t. I cut class. Didn’t you notice?” Ryan’s eyes were locked on his backpack as he shuffled through it. Brendon saw that, indeed, the bag was not full of binders or books, but of boxes of food.  
  
“No, sorry. I guess not.” He shifted his gaze away. Just looking at it made his face feel hot. “How long have you been here?”  
  
Ryan shrugged and retrieved a box of cookies. “Since about three. I had to run to the store to pick up some stuff.” He opened it and brought a sweet to his lips, pausing before leaning the box to Brendon. “Want one?” He took a bite, chocolate already melting around his mouth.  
  
Brendon stared at his mouth for a moment, the motions of his lips moving like waves. He shook his head and grabbed the case. “Sure.” He put his hand in the package and withdrew a treat, holding on to it instead of eating it immediately. He didn’t want to look awkward; he was just hanging out with his friend. They had done this hundreds of times before. “So, what led you to invite me here again? We could have just as easily gone to the movies or something.” He felt the slipping of the chocolate on his fingers from the heat, but he did not eat the cookie.  
  
“Well, to be honest,” Ryan licked his fingers. Brendon looked away. “I’m sort of using you as a guinea pig.”  
  
“Please clarify.” Brendon narrowed his eyes. He stuffed the cookie in his mouth, unable to stand the distracting slide it was giving between his fingers.  
  
“Okay,” he laughed, drawing his hand back quickly to wipe the residue of the crumbs on his shirt. “Let’s start out with the facts. I’m dirt poor, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”  
  
“Get a job.” Brendon stared accusingly without pity.  
  
“Shut the fuck up. And no.” Ryan stared back, sarcasm and a little bit of truth in his tone. “Anyway, because I’m dirt poor, one can assume I have no money to take myself, much less a girl, out to decent restaurant. This is very bad news for my pussy statistics.”  
  
Brendon shifted uncomfortably at the word. Pussy. He hated that word. He began to feel dirty about the whole conversation. “I see,” he cleared his throat.  
  
“Duh, genius, I’m using you as a test subject. I’m making you dinner to see if I still remember how to cook okay. If this goes well, I’ll try it on her.”  
  
“Oh,” Brendon started. “You’re dating her now?”  
  
“Thinking about it. Man, it’s gonna be great. You see, she’s never been here before, so she’s gonna think it’s so awesome.” Ryan reclined on the back of his arms, supporting himself on the back of the granite counter, eyes gazing up. “I wonder if she’ll let me fuck her right here on the counter.”  
  
Brendon felt his breath jolt and stir inside of his chest, making him hiccup. “Ugh, Ryan, that’s disgusting! I don’t want to eat where you’re going to have sex!” He shot a sickened stare at him, but Ryan guffawed loudly.  
  
“She’ll say, ‘Oooh, Ryan, your expertise planning to win my heart has succeeded! Touch me right here...’” He moved closer, inspiring jerked attempts of escape from Brendon. He chortled at the expression on Brendon’s face. Brendon saw his game, and felt and involuntary smile curve on his face.  
  
“Yeah, right. In your dreams.” He pushed a mass of Ryan’s hair, watching it bounce back into place. Ryan looked up through his bangs, mouth small and mischievous, eyes dancing like water. Brendon didn’t look away this time. He allowed his sight to drink in Ryan’s presence. It was a cool pillow for his thoughts; he felt better.  
  
Without any forethought, he slipped a finger through one of Ryan’s belt loops and tugged it taut. “The only way you’ll get into that girl’s pants again is if you start cross-dressing again.” His smile broadened. How could he have been nervous?  
  
Ryan sat up, twisting his frame so that Brendon’s finger was caught in the strip of denim. It did not startle him, or even hurt him, but a small wave of panic lapped up against his mind. An unsteady look teetered on his face, cheeks growing faint in their color. Brendon felt two orbs of eyes stalking him, calling for his attention, forcing.  
  
“In my dreams?” Ryan spoke, something almost like a smile on his lips. “You want to know what’s in my dreams?”  
  
“Ryan...?” Brendon felt afraid again.  
  
“Brendon.”  
  
The small pool of uneasiness that had accumulated in Brendon’s chest had flurried into a raging ocean. When he pulled his hand to try and run, it was held down. A wide spread of fingers was upon his chest, the creases of one digit lacing itself below his collar bone, digging under the hem of his shirt. Brendon tried to breathe, but found that all of the air around him had been turned to fire. His chest heaved in fear and alarm, eyes shutting instinctively as he was pushed, a pang echoing in his back at the strength. His mouth was open, but the only thing inside of it had died. The yell he had prepared to release fell and never awoke.  
  
“In my dream,” Ryan’s bangs were upon Brendon’s eyelids, tickling, inspiring a twitching similar to when one really does dream. His mouth was very hot. When it rested upon the nape of his neck, Brendon feared something would splash around him and he would drown. “She’d be just like this. I’d touch her here first,” Fingers were prying the workings of his shirt, coaxing buttons out of their holds. A slice of Brendon’s pale skin was seen between the white embrace of his uniform as Ryan’s hand slid under the cloth, nimble digits working over a flushing peak. A soft sound fell from Brendon’s tongue, desperate and eased. He had never felt himself respond to such a sensation. The smooth slide of the skilled fingertips evoked a louder groan, the noise sudden and stirring to Brendon. “Do you think she’d like something like this?” Ryan asked between his nips at Brendon’s heating skin.  
  
Brendon found his head was empty. There was no singing choir. The Bible he had carried lay blank. He nodded his head, nearly breathless, and mouthed, “Yes...Yes...”  
  
A trail was being born along his chest, and Ryan’s lips began to follow it. He planted gentle grazings along the supple curves of his muscles, moving his fingers and replacing them with the fervid silk of his tongue. Brendon felt his back rise and arch into it, head helpless, hands numb. Perhaps he wasn’t even thinking at all. His mind must have surrendered to something. His whole being was sweltering.  
  
“Maybe this, next?” Ryan offered teasingly, mouth moving over the coloring tip until a flash of pink shot over it, sending sparks through Brendon’s muscles like a spasm. His teeth touched it softly, running over it lightly like threads. Brendon’s chest rose into it faster as he drew in air more and more quickly. He had failed to notice that both of his hands were free. He left them clutching emptiness.  
  
“Ryan,” The word was almost pained. “We shouldn’t...”  
  
But he could not finish it. God was gone. There was no reason left.  
  
“She’d be getting wet around this time, better for me to fuck her. So I’d slip my hand like this...” The phrase was dripping and blazing, a red paint boiling in his ears. He felt stroking above his belt line, and the curves of his body jumped responsively at the cooling contact. A sleek, hand slipped into the waistband of Brendon’s pants, moving over the fabric of his boxers, cupping him wholly. A jerked moan was uttered, Brendon’s head lifting slightly until his hair met Ryan’s again. He had called it dirty, he had felt dirty. But there was no other way, was there? It may have been mud defiling platinum, but where else was platinum found but earth? It wasn’t filthy; it was simply unknown.  
  
“She’d be getting hotter and hotter, waiting for me inside of her. You can almost taste her wetness when it gets this high. She might even be begging for it by now.”  
  
“Ryan...Ryan...” Brendon’s hips rose into the grasp, pressing harder. The hand climbed up the scalding, soused texture, manipulating itself until pushed upon pure skin. Brendon felt his teeth tighten and slacken at the touch. “Please...”  
  
“She’d be telling me where to go...what to do to her...” the sultry lips brushed the curve of Brendon’s neckline, the words spilling like wine. Brendon’s tongue felt heavy with the desire for it. “Christ, she’d be moaning.”  
  
“Ryan,” Brendon raised a shaking hand and guided it to the one stroking below his navel. “H-Hold it...” His eyes lifted, half-open, face ablaze with swirling color. “Hold it and slide dah...” he gasped as his request became half-accomplished. “...Down...” And the grip became a hard and steady motion, rising and falling like tides. Palm, then fingertips, shifting knuckle, then a half-moon of dulled nail. All like ice and fire and thunder upon his skin, his scepter. Ardor flooded his features as coherent language left him entirely. His tongue became capable of hitched and unplanned gasps, and nothing more. He was holding nothing but himself; his hands turned in on themselves, clutching tightly his own shirt, then nothing at all. Everything but him was empty. There was only white.  
  
He opened his eyes and could hardly see. He felt full of something. He felt as if he were on the ledge of a very step cliff. He could not see a bottom to it. White. Full. Empty. Darkness. This was so much easier than all of the thoughts of God that had been in his mind recently. He should have just let things go. What had he to fear?  
  
There was a sound far from them. Brendon felt Ryan’s hand slide out of his pants, the smothering heat gone.  
  
“Hey,” a voice came from the living room, step closer. “Anyone home?”  
  
“Mother fucker,” Ryan murmured, drawing his entire body away from Brendon’s, forcing himself backwards so fast he landed ass-first. His expression held no care for such trivial pain; it was alight with the flame of fear and child-like terror and of being caught.  
  
Brendon turned his head, his fevered, pleasure-clouded head, to the direction of Ryan’s sudden hysteria.  
  
"Don't freak out," Ryan snapped to him, voice low and in warning, and Brendon gulped, willing himself to calm down. By the time Ryan's mother came into view, they both were the pinnacle of calm.  
  
"Hey," Ryan smiled cheerfully, "just making dinner."  
  
Mrs. Ross smiled, nodding at Brendon in acknowledgement and the boy shot back a weak smile, his nerves still burning.  
  
They chatted for awhile, mostly Ryan, trying to devert his mother's attention from Brendon. When she finally left, Brendon felt that he could breathe again, the pressure pushing at his chest lessened. He shot Ryan a scowl.  
  
"Fuck, Ryan, we shouldn't - We could've -"  
  
"Yeah, but we didn't," Ryan said dismissively, smirking, "I won't let us, okay? Can you trust me on that?"


	5. cinq

Though it was perfectly expected, Ryan’s tone with him the next day still managed a flinch from Brendon. And he hated it too, the gleam in Ryan’s eyes when he did, because he knew he was exactly where the older boy wanted him. He should know, he knew Ryan Ross better than anyone, maybe that was the problem, he was _too_ close.  
  
“Jesus Christ, Brendon,” The voice sounded disappointed, as if in attempts to scold him. “You’re more stupid and predictable than I thought.”  
  
Brendon purposely looked at his Cellular Respiration notes, as if that made him feel any better – he never even studied last night, too overwrought about what happened the previous day. Then he proceeded to hate himself for agonizing over it; what done was done.  
  
“Come inside, it’s blazing hot out here, let’s talk,” Ryan said, gently, his tone was more of a soft request than a demand, and that’s when Brendon broke his resolve not to look up – peeking up to see if Ryan’s facial expression matched the sincerity of his tone. Of course not.  
  
“Leave me.”  
  
“No.” Ryan stood above him like a tower. Brendon was ashamed at his huddled, crouching form, but found himself too infuriated to protect his pride. He swiped a heavy hand at Ryan’s knees, as he had done to him all those years ago.  
  
“I said get the fuck away from me!” He felt his fingers curl into a harsh contact against the bone in Ryan’s leg and the buckle through the brown-haired boy’s body as it hit wholly, no attempted dodge to soften its pain. Ryan emitted a full, raw groan and Brendon saw the deluge of agony upon his features as he clenched his palms and hands together in a way that left crescent-shaped sores in his hands. Blood rushed swiftly to his cheeks, his sweat becoming caustic and sharp in its scent. Brendon felt guilty. He felt sorry. His lips and teeth tightened in rebellion. He waited for the fall, the curse, the retreat.  
  
But Ryan opened his eyes, the lapis reflecting betrayal and a harrowing strength. Tears had gathered, but they hovered on the edge of the slopes of his face. “Let’s talk.” He said again, tone shaking. His fingers shook in time with his lips; they were holding back their own temptations. Brendon found his gaze averted, embarrassed and flushed.  
  
“I just...” he began, not sure what he wanted to say in the first place.  
  
He hugged his knees closer, their pressing on his chest becoming too tight. His hold did not slacken. “I’m not gay.” He said finally, feeling distracted from the true problem. Though his head was screaming with a thousand more important phrases, that was the one that arose to the surface of his tongue. “I’m not gay, Ryan, I’m not.” When he repeated it, he found how much it hurt to say it. He didn’t know why. His chin burrowed itself between the mountains of his knee caps.  
  
Ryan took a quivering step forward, legs still jerking unsteadily, face lined with a silenced torture. “Me neither.” He sunk down to eye-level with Brendon, a taut gasp slipping from him as the pain shook his senses. There was a hot hand on Brendon’s forehead.  
  
“I’m not.” Brendon said aloud, but barely. His voice was quiet. Fingers fell from his brow to the drying texture of his lips. They keened themselves between the silky glide, over teeth, encouraging tongue. The digits had already pulled themselves away when Brendon snapped into the reality of what was happening. “What...?” He breathed, struck puzzled. His body became tight as he watched Ryan lead his saliva-drenched fingers to his own mouth and suckle Brendon’s taste into his own being.  
  
Quivering breaths forced themselves into Brendon’s chest. When he tried to back away, he found he could not sink into the truck of the tree behind him any further.  
  
“Your siblings are all inside.” Ryan began nonchalantly, crawling towards him. His hand rested by another. “Laughing at you even. I think you’re a bit too old for a tree house, Bren.” Somehow, his lithe body slipped through Brendon’s shut thighs. “We’re all alone.”  
  
“No,” he heard his voice become desperate and weak. He didn’t care. He wanted out. If he got out, he’d be okay.  
  
He felt hands between his legs again. Instead of succumbing, instead of fighting, he felt his mind wander into a place far from where he was.  
  
Ryan kneaded the crotch of Brendon’s pants with his palms, eyes shallow and distant. His fingers felt desperate as they clawed the cloth that held Brendon’s hardness away from exposure. The rolling waves of pressure invoked a jerked moan from Brendon’s mouth, the sound filling the hollowed cave with a shatter of echoes. Ryan lifted one of his hands to the smooth, sculpted curve of Brendon’s chin, outlining the feature with his soft digits, eyes cast upon him as if he were something beautiful. His body straightened and lowered in the rhythm of his strokings, their motions quickening and becoming more and more intense while his fingertips grazed the gentle shadings on Ryan’s cheek.  
  
Brendon’s head clouded out reason with the steam from his staggering breaths. He leaned into Ryan’s fingers, guiding them back by his mouth, hoping to encourage the suckling he had began. Instead, Ryan brushed the texture of his lips, other hand still working over the fabric intently, mouth hovering above the place of Brendon’s hot gasps. He left himself suspended above the expecting tongue, the air that pushed out of him quivering with anticipation. Brendon tried to tilt his head inconspicuously so that their lips would meet, but Ryan drew away slightly at each attempt. The sensation of their lips being so near made Brendon feel unsafe and greedy. Something within him stirred, something he had known once. The pressing upon him stopped, and was replaced by the looseness around the tightened cloth as the button and zipper to his pants were undone.  
  
“I’m going to do you a favor,” Ryan began, his face so close, their foreheads were touching. Brendon’s cheeks bloomed crimson as the heat of the air became a scent of sweat. “But this means you’ll have to do one for me sometime too.” There were fingers slipping under the elastic of Brendon’s boxers, and as much as he tried, he only got harder.  
  
His head felt heavy and foreign as it lifted and fell in reply.  
  
Ryan smiled at the fever Brendon’s face was lost in, eyes never leaving his even as his hands manipulated the sorely erect member from the dampening boxers. Brendon felt his mind and gaze wander, thoughts empty while he looked upon his own painfully hard cock, its tip glistening with beads of his impatience. He was sure it was a dream; some movie he had meandered into out of bursting curiosity. But he watched as Ryan lowered his lips, moving his tongue across the spots of wetness he had gained. A full groan escaped him, hands gripping the indentions of the wooden floor to keep from screaming. His mind felt as if it were blossoming. He was beginning to think in wide bursts of color, pink and red and purple flowering into shades he had never known. He watched, panting, as Ryan gripped the parts he could not reach with his mouth and moved his fingers in time with his lips.  
  
Brendon’s pelvis arched as he tried to push himself deeper into the hot, tight cave. When he did so, Ryan hummed a low note of submissiveness, the buzz incurred like a shock of thunder to Brendon’s nerves. A wanton yell echoed, so loud and primal, Brendon didn’t notice it was him. A limp hand fell onto the brown-haired boy’s head, pushing him down, encouraging a deeper dive.  
  
The pair of lips upturned at Brendon’s powered reaction, and Ryan began to lace every stroke of his tongue with a gentle purr, sending shivers and sighs of ecstasy through Brendon’s body. When Brendon’s cries bordered on wails, he moved the hand he had been using to support himself down the back of Brendon’s pants. Brendon bucked against the sensation of Ryan’s fingers so close to his entrance, but when they grazed against it, he found his mouth open and the sound of pleasure reverberating about him. His yells rose in strength, growing shorter and higher and louder on par with his spasms of rapture. Ryan felt his rise grow stronger, timing out the motions until he pressed to digits into the boy’s passage. A groan of pleasure-pain rumbled deep within Brendon’s throat, but instead of denying the heated pressing into his body, he allowed, pushing back harder every time he tried to move himself further into Ryan’s mouth. Brendon found that his consciousness was bare. The colors were gone. There was only the heightening bliss racking his whole body, consuming all of him. White. He had found it. No darkness. Not anymore.  
  
Brendon came, face taut with a final, carnal moan. He saw Ryan swallow, traces of the fluid leaking at the corners of his lips. When he drew his mouth away, a fine bridge of saliva and essence dribbled out. Ryan licked away the remains, and with his tongue still bitter with come, he pushed Brendon forward into a hard kiss. As their tastes collided, Brendon felt the flavor of his passion. It was hot and salty, like water from a sea he hadn’t heard of. It tasted too dangerous to have come out of him. He thought, for a second, if perhaps this was how Ryan always tasted. But he knew better. Their tongues had crossed before.  
  
They pulled away from each other, gasping for breath as if they had been underwater for a long time. Ryan had a streak of moisture by his cheek where their lips had gotten careless, but he left it there, cooling along with his flushing face.  
  
Ryan laughed, and Brendon smiled, unsure and puzzled.  
  
“Was that your first time?” Ryan’s grin grew broader. He chuckled as if he were teasing.  
  
A jolt ran through Brendon’s tiring body. Which did he mean? With a boy? Head? Head with a boy? _God, he realized, it was all new_. “Yeah,” he said with shaky disbelief. “Yeah it was.”  
  
“I figured as much.” Ryan stood, straightening his shirt casually. “Congratulations. You’re a screamer.”  
  
“What?” Brendon stammered, embarrassed. Ryan laughed, watching the boy’s face grow scarlet in a sudden shame. “Don’t make fun of me!” He retorted, zipping up and buttoning his pants in a frenzy. Ryan eased his chortle into something soft, offering a hand for Brendon to grasp for support.  
  
“I didn’t mean to. It’s just nostalgia. Don’t worry about it.” Brendon took his hand and stood. Ryan swatted a playful hand across his bottom. “It was cute. Hot, even.”  
  
“Whatever,” Brendon murmured, the line of blush bridging over his nose.  
  
Ryan spoke, eyes focused intently on the roof.  
  
“What do you think God thought about that?”  
  
Brendon didn’t feel guilty. He didn’t know why. Perhaps his head was still clouded. He had a looming feeling he would feel it later, though. Things that were forbidden had a tendency to bite your conscious after time, the satisfaction covering the shame for a while, like drugs dissipating from the mind of one with a painful wound.

  
He shrugged, smile fading.  
  
“I have no clue.”  
  
Ryan heaved a small chuckle, as if amused by the answer. “Cool."


	6. six

Brendon had to stifle the urge to lunge himself upon the older boy, his confusion on whether to pummel or grind against him the only thing keeping him from doing so.  
  
Oh, Lord, was he angry.  
  
His hand still held the crumpled note he had received only minutes before on his health-class desk, holding all of the strenuously nerve-racking allure of the first one. He hadn’t wasted a second on looking in Ryan's direction; he knew very well that Ryan's gaze would be locked upon his, drawing his quivering fingers to the paper while reining his sight. He couldn’t stand to be under his control again. Not again. He had his own strength. He opened the slip of paper, trying his hardest to look nonchalant.

 _Brendon,_  
  
 _Back building restroom, lunch._  
  
 _You owe me._  
  
 _Ryan_  
  
He could not stop himself from fingering the sharp edges of the note nervously, mouth dry and empty and very, very warm. His tips tingled upon the softening slice of paper for the entire period, eyes bolted upon the whiteboard, ears blocking all sound, mind screaming if he could just look at him, just look without feeling guilty for a moment. He was so tired of feeling guilt. It clung to him like a perfume, clotting his throat and drowning his breaths. Inescapable. It dripped from his body as if it were a paint of his sweat.  
  
And his gaze faltered for one second, fluttering about him, scanning the hands that still held the wretched note. He wasn’t. He really wasn’t. He wondered if his brain was still trying to process the whole ordeal, moving slowly like a machine with too many tasks piled upon it. Perhaps he hadn’t even begun to feel the sting of the guilt he was supposed to be experiencing, or if it was gathering together to smother him in a wave of his sins. He smiled absentmindedly, noticing his knuckles had paled to a sickly shade of grey, chuckling internally at the idea that his entire body may be the exact same color. He must look terrible. He certainly was feeling terrible.  
  
The bell rang. Lunch.  
  
Brendon rose and shuffled his belongings into his bag, eyes low and dimmed in the glaze of his glasses. When Ryan brushed by him, laughing cheerily with one of the other classmates, a sigh fell from the Brendon's mouth freely. It was as if a weight simply melted to dust from his shoulders, his buckling, weakening shoulders. He slung the strap of his backpack around himself, securing the strip. Muttering a salutation to his health teacher, Brendon slid out of the classroom, the sound of the door opening and closing similar to silence.

* * *

  
  
The walls were stone and white, like a temple.  
  
He did not want to stand against the wall opposite to the sinks, in plain view of the three people who had come and gone so far, but he did not want Ryan to miss him or think he had not come. He was much more willing to withstand the stares of strangers than to be branded “chicken shit” by someone as notorious as Ryan. His only saving grace so far had been that the intervals between the curious, wary looking boys were spaced graciously from one another. He began to pray that perhaps there would be no more strangers after this one. Perhaps Ryan would come next. Perhaps it would be over quickly.  
  
Brendon sighed. A tawny-haired boy, one whose shade was much darker than Ryan's, walked into the restroom. He caught brief eye contact with his equally brunette orbs before the youth swiveled in front of an urinal and began to unzip. Brendon cleared his throat, averting his sight and trying to balance the flush of color in his face. He was beginning to feel stupid. More so, he was beginning to feel stood up. The droning of the falling liquid in the stark silence made his stomach turn to rot.  
  
A set of heavy footsteps became audible, Brendon raising his gaze to the figure approaching. His entire face brightened at the appearance of Ryan, face paling from past laughter, hands slipped casually into his pockets as if he had no idea there was someone waiting for him. Brendon's eyes regained an intense shine as he smiled honestly at the familiarity. His face beamed, thoughts and worries of lateness forgotten almost instantly.  
  
“Ryan,” he breathed in a steady relief.  
  
Ryan flicked a brief wave before positioning himself in front of the urinal. “Hey.” He turned his back to him.  
  
Brendon felt his chest sink into itself, as if collapsing. He felt foolish, oh, he felt very, very foolish. He had been expecting friendly words to compensate for his time. But how could he expect anything from this boy? He pressed himself against the cold wall and waited. The dark-haired stranger finished, stare daunting and lurking upon Brendon as he stalked closer to the sink. Brendon cleared his throat again, the sound retching.  
  
“So, what have you been up to?” He murmured to break the string between their voices. Ryan cast a confused, yet somewhat amused look back at him. He forced an annoyed smile, the kind one gives to show that they really did not want to answer. The kind one gives to make the inquirer feel utterly stupid. The stranger boy stifled a chuckle. Brendon knew why.  
  
“Nothing...” Ryan finished, a tone of superiority high in his voice. The unfamiliar boy shared a look of mockery with him as he left, shaking the water from his hands, the sound of its splattering as searing as their cruel smiles. Brendon could not figure as to why this was happening to him, why Ryan would leave him stranded in front of someone so perfectly unknown to them. His sight became steely with anger as he watched Ryan shake himself, flush, and walk to the sink.  
  
There was the sound of water. Ryan began to whistle.  
  
Brendon hit a fist against the tile, pain numbing. “Fuck this,” he growled harshly, adjusting his backpack before stomping toward the exit, eyes plastered to the ground. He did not want to know what would happen if he looked at him again. How could he? How could he make him feel so asinine? After he told him to come here; after he wanted him to be here. Brendon's cheeks reddened swiftly, the shade clotting and clawing. He made sure to have his shoulder hit Ryan's on his way out, despite the shock of stinging he would have to withstand as well.  
  
A firm, wet hand on his wrist again. “Wait.”  
  
“Fuck you,” he tugged the force away. Futile, he realized all too quickly as the grip shifted into a push. There was a pair of hands upon his own, and a hard shove against a bathroom stall against his back. A surprised yelp came from Brendon's mouth as the bolt of hot pain skipped up his vertebrae. His eyes watered at the sensation of his muscles dissolving into static from the nip of his back to the wide space between his shoulder blades. They seemed to melt into a whisper, making his knees buckle.  
  
“Wanna play tug-o-war? Then let’s fucking play,” Ryan rasped throatily into Brendon's ear, the phrase barked harshly in one scorching breath. Shivers raced through Brendon's nerves, his face turned away from the mess of brown bangs clogging his lungs with their heavy, thick scent. His breathing became audible; he was becoming afraid again. Every time he was afraid with Ryan, he found darkness, and then light. He couldn’t do this anymore. He couldn’t let himself become weakened. He tried to pull away. His hands felt massive and defiant.  
  
“You keep pulling,” Ryan whispered, switching his stance and dragging Brendon by the arms into the stall he had been pushed upon. Brendon heard the squeaking of his shoes as they tried to cement themselves to anywhere outside of the plastic and metal stall. He heard them skid to a terrible stop behind the twist-lock door. He heard them take three small, feeble steps backward until the latrine denied any further means of escape. There was the slick of the lock shutting, and the swift cage of Ryan's arms around him. “But you don’t get away.” A hard kiss stealing his breath. He could still taste it. He could still taste him.  
  
“Please, Ryan,” he tried, but again, his words were brushed aside.  
  
“Please?” Ryan scoffed between brushings. “Bren, do you have any idea how much stronger than me you are?” There was an allowed silence, as if he wanted Brendon to realize in that moment. And he did. His eyes widened. “If you wanted to, you could have gotten out of here a lot sooner.” Then, another kiss, slower and softer than the ones before. Brendon nearly sighed. When they pulled away, Brendon's lips followed, begging for more contact. His eyes were closed, but somehow he saw Ryan smiling triumphantly. “But you don’t want to, do you?”  
  
Brendon shut his lips and opened his eyes, wanting so much for his gaze to be fire. To just burn him away in his sight.  
  
“Do you?” Ryan's smiled grew a bit bolder, the lids lowering over his eyes and his bottom lip curling under his front teeth as if in anticipation. The expression left Brendon confused, but in the haze, he could not help but think how cute it made him-  
  
“Shit!” Brendon jolted under the slip of fingers entering his pants from the front, after deftly undoing the zipper. Vaguely Brendon tried to keep thinking why Ryan always seem to know how to do these things without blinking an eye, but when the feeling of a hot, eager hand cupping him came, Brendon found his breath lost to him, shivers sparking themselves through his nerves at a pace unknown to him. When he gasped to force a moan out, there were only jerking grips for air. His eyelashes fluttered as if he were in a fever.  
  
“Do you?” Lips on his earlobe. Tongue. Teeth.  
  
“No...” Remittance, remittance, just once more and it would be over for good. Just one more dive of darkness and he’d pray every day for forgiveness.  
  
God could understand; he had to. He was only human. He was only a man. He made mistakes, and anyone could forgive him for such. He couldn’t be good all of the time. He didn’t know anyone who could. A pressing against his side, something hardened and held down. Ryan's breath like fire on his neck. He quivered in the heat.  
  
“Not now, Bren,” Finger fondling all of him. He mewed in compliance, heart pounding in his temples. “You think you want it now, oh, wait until tonight...” Suddenly, gone. The warmth of his hand dissipating, leaving him panting emptily. Brendon fell to the side, leaning onto the right wall of the stall, face flourishing in and out of scarlet. He was trembling, sweating. Ryan smiled cruelly. “You didn’t think I’d fuck you in the boy’s bathroom, did you?”  
  
His throat was tight. He swallowed.  
  
A laugh. Brendon shut his eyes again, trying to concentrate on his breathing, trying to slow the shakings. Oh, he did. He did want it.  
  
“Come to my house tonight.”  
  
“Your dad...” Brendon heaved instinctively.  
  
“He’s on a business trip, and Mom’s with my aunt. Besides,” Brendon heard him smile again. “We’re friends. Why would they need to be worried?” A pat on his crotch. A shuddering moan escaped. Another laugh. “We’re just two boys who’ve known each other for years. No need to suspect anything. Right?”  
  
He had never wanted to feel like prey. He had never wanted to be under anyone else’s control ever again. He was free from that darkness. He had fought and fought and fought, and Jesus, he had gotten out of there alive. He was his own person. He had regained his right to listen to no one but himself.  
  
Brendon nodded pathetically. Ryan lifted a hand onto his hair and ruffled it. “That’s a good boy.” As if he was a dog. A pet.  
  
The door to the stall unlocked with a light click, Ryan slipping his hands into his pockets, a high tune permeating the air through his whistle. Brendon shook his head, hair hanging like daggers in front of his eyes. In a rush, he stuffed his sweat-clotted shirt back down into his pants, straightening the wrinkles pressed into it, or at least trying to hide them. Outside, there was the sound of the faucet again. Footsteps. Then a pause.  
  
“Remember. Tonight. My house.”  
  
“I know,” Brendon said, his voice softer than he had ever heard it before. His hands were still not quite still. He clenched them into fists. “I owe you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going on a break for a while. Till then, comments & kudos are love! ^-^


	7. Chapter 7

“Fuck.”  
  
He truly had gone through a lot of trouble to be there. It was hard enough to have to persuade his mother to let him leave the house after dark. She was still in a stage where whenever Brendon left, it had to be in daylight. The last time he strayed away under the stars...He didn’t come home. Not for a very long time. Considering such, he realized it was not such an unreasonable phobia. Coming home to find his mother in such terrifying disarray was nerve racking to say the least. He couldn’t even recall a day where she looked less than radiant, but on the day he returned, she was in shambles. Her hair was limp and faded, its glow gone, like a flower perishing from lack of sun. Her simple white dress, wrinkled and much too big for her thinning waist. But he held her hand and reassured her he would be at Ryan’s house and nowhere else. He would be by him at all times. His parents would be within shouting distance. They would study, perhaps (he knew this was a lie, but lying and protection often went hand-in-hand in the world he had grown accustomed to) or watch some movies (this he did not know for sure; before high school, he and Ryan were avid film critics in their own way. Maybe they could manage a flick or two between Ryan’s inkling of what might happen).  
  
“Mom,” he spoke, smiling at her soul. Her poor, naked soul. She looked so tired now. “I’ll be okay. I’m just spending the night at Ryan’s. Like when I was a kid, remember?”  
  
At this, her face became wan, expression melting away from fear. She squeezed his hand, raising the other and placing it upon their bow of fingers. “It’s...alright by me. Ask your father when he gets home.”  
  
Brendon had to stifle a grimace to reign his gaze of contentment. “Of course,” he forced.  
  
When he was a boy, he could have easily said he loved his father. His constant meetings were like mysteries to him. His presence was a gift. And yet over time, such things lost their mystic. The only thing left to their qualities was the fact that he was hardly ever home, much less when they needed him. Brendon had actually been counting on the fact that he would only need to seek permission from his mother. The fact that he would be there complicated his plan.  
  
As soon as the front door shut, he approached his father with the mumble of a request. It was granted swiftly. Brendon nodded in polite son-like gratitude. He had felt much more accomplished when speaking to his mother, but allowance was allowance. He walked upstairs to pack his overnight bag.  
  
After waves of farewell and a rather uncomfortable and awkward embrace from his mother in the doorway, Brendon left his house as the sun was completing its setting. The street lights flickered to life all about him as he walked to Ryan’s house, but he really did not mind. He enjoyed the fleeting moments of the light’s descent. The brushstrokes of purple and orange upon the sky were the closest things to magic Brendon could identify. They were the closest things to pleasant memories.  
  
He began to get the feeling that something was wrong the minute he reached the one-block marker from Ryan’s house. There was something heavy in the air; something foreign and wrong. It was a scent of fruit rotting, of plants he had never seen before burning. Whatever was poisoning his breath, it was something he had never smelled in his life, and that in itself scared him a bit. His pace quickened, turning corners and passing markers faster than he had ever wanted to around Ryan’s home. He saw lights, many, many lights. And cars. Already, a whole block away, cars.  
  
Oh, fuck no...  
  
Music. Fast and loud and hard. Pulsing under the concrete with hypnotizing rhythms. The beats fused into the soles of his feet; he felt them. He smelled cheap food. Carbohydrates. Chips and bread. Wheat fermenting. Grapes dissolving in their juices.  
  
Oh, fuck no, he wouldn’t...  
  
As the sight became clearer and closer, he still did not want to believe it. There were shadows in his windows. People dancing, yelling, groping. Splashes rang out from behind the back gate. Cheers and hoots of encouragement rang out after the wet rip of water in Ryan’s swimming pool settled into fine splatters on his deck. So many cars...How many people had crammed into every single one of these cars?  
  
Brendon stood in front of the house, breathing ragged from his running. He had sprinted, and had not even realized it. The weight of his bag was gone in the flush of his adrenaline. He felt unsteady and weightless in the swirl of sweat slicking upon his brow. Lamp light glowed in the reflection of that grime. Brendon blinked. He didn’t want to believe it, but that did not stop it.  
  
“Fuck.” He breathed at the sight. Ryan was throwing a party. He had called Brendon to be with him, and then decided to throw a fucking house party. There was a fleeting thought that this may be the wrong house, that Ryan would never want to embarrass or hurt him like this. The idea was shattered as a pair of girls stumbled out of the front door, hanging upon one another, one tilting her head and flipping her hair so that she could throw up.  
  
“Fuck.” Brendon sighed. He could go home. He could just turn around.  
  
(you owe me)  
  
Too late to turn back now.


	8. huit

The scent of pot hit him first, wholly and choking as if a cloud had been festering at the doorway, waiting for him. He coughed heartily, eyes watering and sinuses beginning to plot a terrible revenge. The circle that had formed around the pipe in the living room turned its head toward him, gaze sleepy and mocking all at once. Brendon patted his chest with a final hack, waving a hand at the group in reassurance. They chuckled at him cruelly, resuming their listless whining for another hit, just one more, I swear. Brendon stood entranced at the sight of their clawing dormancy, wondering how anyone could ever want such a thing. As his lungs, nose and mind grew accustomed to the startling new scent, he exhaled smoothly. His shoulders slackened.  
  
“Hey, preppy,” a boy with mussed blond hair called to him from the circle. A few girls giggled. Brendon jolted and turned to him. “If you want a hit, come take one. Don’t just stand there hotboxing.”  
  
“Um,” Brendon raised his hands in protest. “No thanks. I don’t smoke.”  
  
Many in the group released soft, amused shots of laughter, others smiling faintly, hands becoming curious. The blonde boy shook his head, grinning, reaching for the pipe and lighter. He held the ceramic piece to his lips, other hand flicking sparks from the lighter until finally invoking a flame. He suckled the smoke, the smell of the herb burning clotting the air of the living room. Letting the smooth porcelain lip of the pipe slide from his mouth, he held the cool curls of fog in his chest, allowing several seconds to pass before releasing it as a puff of gray haze. With a funny sort of simper, his eyes drifted back to Brendon, who was still watching, mystified.  
  
“Yeah, whatever, neither do I.” He chuckled, wisps of smoke falling coolly from his cheeks. Brendon felt his face fall into a frown. He was getting annoyed already. He needed to find Ryan. He needed to set things straight. Positioning the strap of his bag tightly against his left shoulder, he stormed past the circle, not trusting anyone around him enough to leave his things by the doorway. He made his way into the kitchen.  
  
“Oh,” he yelped instinctively at the sight of three girls in front of a blaring bowl of atomic cherries. Their various shades of hair were dripping wet dollops of water onto their bulging bikini-clad breasts, leaving a massive puddle around their collective set of feet. There was a shy-looking brunette with her fingers positioned in front of luscious, full lips, cherry lingering on the mound of her moist, pink tongue. A fire-haired girl had one hand reaching for another portion of the vodka-soaked fruit, a thin line of candy-red juice falling from the corner of her wide, pretty mouth. A strawberry blonde stood between them, looking bewildered, arms placed in such a way that the supple mounds on her chest plumped together like a mountain range.  
  
Brendon shifted his bag in front of him. “Um...uh, I’m, ah...”  
  
The brunette squished the cherry between her perfect pearls of teeth. Brendon blinked and cleared his throat awkwardly.  
  
“I’m looking for Ryan.” He murmured, eyes low, face burnished crimson.  
  
There was a moment of silence, then an eruption of tittering laughter. Brendon found that he was very quickly becoming tired of people laughing. He shifted his stance and looked annoyed until the girls had finished the zenith of their snickering, their glee dying into sighs of enjoyment. The blonde moved a dampened hair away from her coffee eyes.  
  
“Um, Ryan is upstairs...” Her smile was broad and beautiful, and yet it seemed fake.  
  
“Okay, thanks,” Brendon began to turn.  
  
“No,” the red-head burst out, chortling. “You don’t understand. He’s...” she paused and looked at the other girls, who nodded in proud understanding. “...upstairs...”  
  
“Okay...” He repeated and gave a puzzled stare, smirking a little nervously. “I think I get it. Thanks.” He offered a jerked wave of salutation, shifting to complete his turn.  
  
“No,” the brunette giggled, tone silly and embarrassed. The other girls covered their mouth to hold back another bout of guffaws. “You don’t freakin’ get it...Ryan is _upstairs_.”  
  
“I freakin’ get it, okay? Ryan’s upstairs! I understand!” Brendon threw his hands up in frustration, blush shading into a dark bridge of anger across his nose. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he swore, swiveling his frame and leaving before the throng of girls could gasp out whines of insult. He fumed past seas of strangers, his slicing shoulders leaving him feeling less like a blade and more like a fleck of spray. By the time he reached the stairs, he wanted to scream. If he had to stop for one more shit-faced moron, he would-  
  
“Oh, fuck,” There was a sudden, crooked laugh and a splash of lukewarm liquid upon the crotch of Brendon’s pants. “Sorry, buddy,” was the useless apology from the lop-sided, tipping voice. The dark-haired boy half sighed, half groaned, the sight of the creeping stain of unfamiliarly-scented wetness across his groin irritating the hitching climb of anger in his chest to a state of being officially pissed off. Brendon gripped the banister of the staircase, stomping up two at a time, slamming his feet to the ground as he made his way to Ryan’s bedroom. He gripped the doorknob, twisting, and burst in.  
  
"Ryan, you assho-"  
  
The quick realization that he was talking to no one. The room was empty. Messy, but empty.  
  
“Oh.” Brendon’s eyes darted about, searching for a trace of him. A clue. A sign. He found it odd that this was Ryan’s party, and he had not seen a single hint to where he would be, save the unnerving conversation he had with the soaking-wet girls downstairs. He did not want to have to go back down there to ask for more help. He found it even odder that though the lower floor was packed with people, he could see nobody besides himself upstairs. He heard music and dancing, and yet he felt very alone. Feeling somewhat comfortable in Ryan’s room, despite the state of sluggishness around him, Brendon lifted his bag away from his body and set it in front of the door to Ryan’s closet.  
  
He walked out of the room, shutting the door silently behind him, feeling like a wanderer as he meandered through the hallway by the stairs. Brendon shook the bangs away from his face, flicking them to the side, finding it futile when they fell back into place. He absentmindedly slipped his fingers into his pockets, stepping slowly through the place he had been to so many times before. He remembered the scent of chlorine on his towel, in his hair. Clean pillow cases beneath his head. The sound of Ryan sleeping just above his sleeping bag on the floor. A smile slipped. The music seemed to fade into something quieter, something more like the silence of awakening in the morning below someone you trusted. Not too many years ago.  
  
Brendon spotted a line of light from under the doorway to Ryan’s parent’s bedroom. His eyebrows rose in curiosity, and on a hunch, he reached for the knob and turned it open.  
  
There was a girl.  
  
She was sitting on the corner of the king mattress, raven hair limping wounded in front of her glimpses of tarnished blue eyes. Her skin was milky and soft looking under the hanging light of the ceiling fan. Her expression was distant and lost, as if someone very far away was calling for her. Her muscles looked lax, the cloth of her white long-sleeved shirt crumbling around her wrists at the cuffs loosely. Her full, rounded breasts curved into perfect forms, filling her exposed bra, cupped in black lace. They leaded into a tautly sculpted stomach, falling into a nipping waist. There was a blue-plaid skirt pushed up above her thighs, the color and pattern familiar. Brendon’s gaze fell. There was a pair of black panties encircling her ankle. There was a figure between her legs.  
  
She looked up at him, face calm and distracted, staring through him. Brendon felt frozen, hand still gripping the doorknob. Something within him was telling him to run, run, to just get away.  
  
Her eyes shone. Lips moving. “Ryan...”  
  
Before Brendon could open his mouth to deny, a shadowed mass raised itself from between the dark girl’s thighs. Hands curved to cup her voluptuous bottom. A mess of chestnut hair became visible in the light. A shine of creamy fluid upon claimed lips. Brendon’s breath was lost to him. He felt as if his heart had shriveled into something smaller than the wind. Words were gone. His bible, his God, his thoughts. Everything. Gone.  
  
Ryan’s eyes grew wide as his tongue began to lick around the gleaming smearings of liquid that had lined his mouth. It fell deftly between his teeth. His pupils dilated. “Bren?”  
  
“Oh, God,” Brendon felt his free hand climb to cover his gaping mouth. He felt empty, empty. All of the blood must have been drained from him, from his world. He felt colorless. Empty. He let the doorknob go sharply, the sound as loud as a knock on a heavy door.  
  
(her eyes and hair will never be as bright)  
  
The dark girl’s gaze was lenient. When Brendon stared at her for a few seconds, he could make out the faintest hinting of a simper.  
  
(and she will never be as close to ryan as i am)  
  
Brendon turned and walked back to Ryan’s room, sight clouded in red and black. His hands fumbled for the sphere of the knob, palms rolling freely, movements unchecked and random. Somewhere, he could hear the sounds of muffled shouting, of pants zipping and footsteps storming. Brendon found a way to twist the handle so that he could enter. He did not pause to search for a light switch. He stepped into the room and groped for his bag in the dark. He had to get out of there, if he could just get out of there.  
  
Blinding light. Someone flicked on the lamp. Brendon’s eyes winced, but his hands continued searching. “Brendon, wait, please.”  
  
(wait)  
  
(please)  
  
Hadn’t he said those words? Hadn’t Brendon begged for mercy? For fulfillment?  
  
“Fuck you,” he growled. His vision adjusted to the rush of color. He found his bag and his hand sought to fill themselves with it. There were grips on his wrists again, from the back this time. When Brendon bucked to escape, there was an unrelenting body behind his, balanced and firm.  
  
(do you have any idea how much stronger than me you are?)  
  
“Don’t fucking touch me, you back-stabbing asshole!” Brendon bent his arm to form a sharp point with his elbow and thrust it into Ryan’s solar plexus. He felt the fingers fall from his frame and heard the dreadful gaspings as Ryan crumpled onto the floor, breath as lost to him as it was to Brendon. Rather than resuming the gathering of his things, Ryan stood, hands shaking, chest heaving, eyes blotted and tearing. Oh, Lord, he was crying. His whole body wanted to lose the heavy sadness through falling tear drops. He was so full, so full and so empty. He slunk to his knees, Ryan wheezing behind him.  
  
“You asshole, you fucking asshole...” Brendon rubbed the length of his forearm across his face. Under his nose, under his eyes. He sniffled. “I trusted you, and you pull this kind of shit on me...Do you have any idea how fucking confused I’ve been? How fucking scared?” His word grew thick; his nose was filling as he tried to stop the water from falling down his cheeks. “You’re supposed to be my best friend!” He yelled sharply, turning to face Ryan, who was still clutching his stomach and gasping. “Not some fuckwad who gives me head and tries to fuck me in the school bathroom and goes down on some fucking stranger right in front of me! That’s not how it’s supposed to be! It’s not!” He was shouting now, face hot and cheeks wet despite all efforts. A sickly sob escaped, and Brendon covered his mouth with one hand. He didn’t want to believe such a sound had come out of him. It sounded so weak, so very weak. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be...”  
  
A hand on his shoulder. How he wished he could just shrug it away. His muscles limped at the contact.  
  
“Bren,” Arms all around him. Shuddering breaths on lips slipping by his neck. Being held. “Bren, I’m sorry...” Fingers over his chest, touching him through his shirt. Warmth keening onto his collar bone. “Oh, Brendon, I’m so sorry. I didn’t even know you were here...”  
  
Brendon shuddered. “As if that makes this better? Just because you didn’t know I was here means you can suck on some-”  
  
His shoulders were gripped and swiveled, Ryan’s cold lips upon his suddenly. His eyes shot open. His tongue assaulted, pinned, raped. He tasted...No, no, not what had been before. Something duller and bitter and slipping away and yet clinging. It crawled into him, scampering onto his taste buds, filling his mouth and making him gag. Brendon squirmed away, choking. He thrust out at Ryan, knocking him backwards with the force. Brendon coughed while Ryan watched, face changing, reddening.  
  
“What the fuck, Brendon? What the fuck--"  
  
“You taste like her.” Brendon spat onto the carpet. Again. He still tasted it. He was drowning.  
  
“What the hell are you talking about?”  
  
“You taste...” Again. It was lining his mouth. His whole body coated in her slick, disgusting essence. “...like her come.”  
  
Ryan sat, back against his wall, at a loss for words. His face paled sullenly, the sight of Brendon flushing and bowing and heaving his kiss out so sickly. His eyes shaded darkly, brow furrowing and angry. In one swift motion, he crawled toward Brendon’s kneeling frame and pushed him down, the shards of his hair billowing and fanning upon his carpet, eyes icy with surprise. He pressed his drying lips upon Brendon's furiously, desperately. Brendon tried to dodge, twisting his torso and shaking his head about as if in a seizure. His face was taut with rejection. Though his eyes were closed now, Ryan could sense it. No, no, no, no, no. His mouth wandered. His cheek, his neck, the curve into his chest. “Feel it, Bren, God dammit, feel it...” He pleaded, hands pressing Brendon’s wrists into the ground, legs straddling his waist, back arched so that his lips could read the map of his body. Brendon squirmed.  
  
“Ryan...”  
  
Softly, cooing. The boys jolted in unison at the sound.  
  
It was the dark-haired girl, gaze flowing and shimmering, empty and lost. The black lace panties still hung above her foot like a tacky anklet. Her shirt sleeves wrinkled into ruffles at her cuffs, the collar, side, and back of the uniform top behind her, almost dragging. Her breasts, ripe and heavy, beamed high and sculpted in her ribbon-lined bra. Her skirt was too short. Brendon could see where her thighs led to her bottom. Brendon blushed. Ryan saw this. His lips upturned.  
  
“You don’t want it from me, Bren? You say you ain’t a faggot?” Ryan twisted Brendon’s hands, lifting him so that his arms curved behind his back as he forced him to stand. Brendon whimpered, face already moist from tearing. He shot his crystal gaze down, down, down. Hatefully, he watched the floor, afraid to send his sight anywhere else. Ryan gripped his face at his chin and jerked it upward, his eyes landing upon the girl. “Fine, then. Let’s do things your way.” Ryan’s breath upon his ear. It sent shivers through him. “Brendon, meet Mika. Mika, this is Brendon.”  
  
Brendon felt his eyes widen and straighten their focus on the girl. Mika? Who was this girl, anyway? Ryan certainly never mentioned her. He scanned her again. No, nothing. Nothing special at all. She was pretty. Very much so. But she looked... almost unworthy. Any girl could have a beautiful face, big tits and a nice ass...Why had Ryan chosen this one? Where he shone, she rusted. Why so different?  
  
He was pushed toward her. He stumbled and nearly fell. “Go ahead, Brendon. Say hello.” Ryan’s voice. His hurting voice. Brendon knew he was upset, but he did not want to lose himself to him. Not because he was angry. Not now. Not like this. He had his own control.  
  
Smooth hands, smooth lips. Cool, sweet tongue rolling like waves into him. Brendon kept his eyes open, but found he was lost in the darkest of forests. Her hair was a labyrinth. He found nothing but darkness inside of it. When she drifted away, her gaze was the same. Unchanging. Uncaring. “Hello,” she murmured, as if this were natural.  
  
“Come on, Brendon,” Ryan shot out, tugging the hold on his hands. “Mika’s being real nice to you... Why don’t you return the favor?” At his last word, he thrust Brendon out of his hands with a turn, pushing him toward his bed. Brendon tripped and landed on the mattress, shocked and speechless, head swimming from his word, her kiss, this future. He could feel what was coming. It was swallowing his soul. He watched Ryan flick a glance at Mika. He pointed to Brendon. Brendon and the bed. “Go ahead, Mika. Brendon wants to prove to me that he doesn’t want me. Why don’t you help him?”  
  
“Ryan,” Brendon shifted, face falling. “No...”  
  
“No?” Ryan shed something similar to a smile. It was like the dying laughter of a cruel joke. His eyes were pained. His vision faltered between them: Ryan watching him, and Mika stepping closer to the bed, undaunted. “No, huh? Sounds like you’re pretty fucking confused there, Bren.” Ryan’s hands were upon him again, tearing his shirt over his head before any protest could even be imagined. Brendon lifted cringing fingers over his bareness. He felt naked. When he felt Mika’s hands glide over his muscles, he jumped and nearly squealed. So fast. Ryan’s eyes were bland. “There’s a lot of people downstairs, you know,” he spoke again, ignoring the panic rising in Brendon’s eyes as Mika looked his body over. “I wonder how many know you get hard when I touch you.”  
  
“Ryan, please, please don’t do this...”  
  
“Prove it to me. Prove that you’re not gay. Prove that you like girls.” Fists clenching. Eyes trying so hard to be strong. “Either that, or show me otherwise.”  
  
“I...  
  
(his mouth on her, oh god oh god, her taste and i never wanted to know such a thing. it was in him now, inside of me now vile vile vile)  
  
...I...  
  
(so many people down there, so many watching and i’m not a bad boy i can be good, i swear. leviticus leviticus leviticus leviticusleviticusleviticus 18 22 18 22 18 22 and i can’t just turn the page manshallnotliewithanotherman give me one more chance once more)  
  
...I can’t do this...” When he tried to push his hair away, it fell over his fingers. Strands of brown stuck to his face, cemented by the glue of his sweat, the paste of his tears. He heard the music downstairs. He heard the laughter of the blond-haired boy, smile clouded with confusion as his swallowed the smoke of that searing herb. The sounds from the girls with their bodies soaked in something he could never swim in. Ryan’s tongue. Mika’s hands. He couldn’t help it. Too much. So fast.  
  
“Ryan, he sounds scared...” Mika’s voice. Her hands cupping his cheeks, thumbs brushing away the tears like they were shavings of charcoal. Lips on his forehead. Mother.  
  
“So he does.” Ryan’s shadow, darker than any illusion Brendon could have made. Not in those days. Not now. “But isn’t he pretty?” And Mika nodded, a smile faint. Brendon’s heart beat as if it would burst. “Why don’t you help him ease this fear?” Ryan raised his arms, coated in cloth, and there were two t-shirts on the floor. And before Brendon could cry out or move, he was riding, and taking, and the whole world spun slower. He felt as if they were dropping so far from a place they could never reach, falling so fast it was impossible for anyone to slow or stop or be saved at all.


End file.
